Mykel came closer to inspect his brother's work, particularly the fat one Sammy was working on presently. Only ten years old, and he already brought home more food than Pop. "Did you use the round trigger I showed you?" Mykel asked.
"No, the notched. Couldn't get the round to work."
"You'll figure it out."
"Caught this one with a deadfall." Sammy held up the smallest rabbit with its legs achingly askew. Not many grown men in Dimmitt boasted such trapping skills, and even fewer boys did. Mykel looked at the tightly closed cottage door, and his enthusiasm faded.
"Pop home?"
Sammy nodded but said nothing.
Jimm Aragos had good days, and he had bad days. As a young man, their father had apparently been happy, strong, and full of life. A member of the Shem tribe, he came from a moderately prosperous and proud people, masters of the southeast lands. Pop had taught Mykel to fish and hunt from an early age. But when Mykel's mom had died birthing Sammy, Pop's drinking turned him to anger—anger that sought an outlet.
Mykel carefully cracked the door and crept into the cabin, hoping Pop was still asleep. A loud, bitter cough alerted him to the contrary.
"Bring me anything to eat?" Pop asked.
"Um, Sammy trapped two coneys," Mykel said.
"Well, why are you standing there? Cook 'em, boy."
"Yes, sir."
Mykel started a fire in the small iron stove, then placed a wide-bottomed pot on top. Behind the thick cloud of smoke coming from his pipe, Pop sat in a chair in the corner. "Announcement tomorrow?" Pop asked.
"Yes."
"You gonna ditch? Cowards always ditch."
The insults were so common, they no longer stung.
Mykel shrugged. "I'm going. I have to. I'll be eighteen before the next one."
"No point to it," Pop said. "Dimmitt is cursed. No gifted here. That idiot priest is wasting his time and yours."
After pulling the last few potatoes from the root basket by the stove, Mykel quickly chopped them, then threw the pieces into the pot with a spoonful of lard. What he would have given for a bit of salt, but the few traveling merchants who passed through Dimmitt always wanted more coins than could be spared.
Sammy finally came in with the coneys, which were clean and ready for the stove. Mykel peeled the raw meat off the bones, cut it into small strips then tossed it in with the potatoes. Pop released another puff of his pipe, and Mykel tried not to choke on the smoke.
"Don't cry like a baby when they do it. Aragos men are tough. Hunters and builders, all of us."
Mykel was tired of the rant. "Built anything lately?"
Silent looks passed between Sammy and Mykel.
Pop gritted his teeth. "You got a smart mouth, you ungrateful rat," he growled, then took a deep puff and glared at Mykel.
He would never have tested Pop when younger, but the man wouldn't dare hit him now. It had been more than a year since they last tangled. When that battle ended, however, Pop was the one left bleeding.
"And what should I feel grateful for?"
"Grateful I didn't drown you at birth, you ugly wretch." Pop moved to the small table. "Your momma was a beauty. I do not understand how she spawned the likes of you."
Some folks told Mykel that before his momma died, Pop had been a gem of a man. Mykel wished he could remember, but that was more than a decade ago, and he recalled nothing. And nothing of his mother. Her absence produced an emptiness that could have been filled by the affection of a loving father, but there was no such person in sight.
Mykel served the coney and potatoes into a bowl for Pop, who always ate first. If there was anything left, the boys would share it.
Pop's pipe filled the small cabin as he ate, and the brothers moved outside to sit on the porch, hoping to satisfy their hunger soon.
"Beautiful coneys, Sammy. Thank you."
Sammy smiled.
"Going tomorrow?" Mykel asked.
"To the ceremony? Sure.”
"Will be good to have you there."
"Is Pop going?" Sammy asked.
"Dunno."
"I think you're gonna be a bear," Sammy growled and made clawing motions with his hands. "Uproot a tree with a single pull."
"I hope so."
"Nara scared? Girls always scared."
"Yeah."
"I like her, Mykel."
"Me too." Mykel smiled at his little brother, and something caught his eye. He reached up to brush back Sammy's hair, but the boy pulled back, his smile vanishing.
"Sammy, let me see."
Mykel reached again, and Sammy did not pull back this time. Pushing the hair aside, Mykel spied a new bruise, fresh and purple on the side of his head near the temple.
"He shouldn't hit you there. Could knock you out."
"He did," Sammy said, his voice pained.
Fury swelled inside Mykel, but he said nothing. He had become accustomed to being Pop's target, but the angry man had clearly moved on to easier prey. They sat a few moments more, without words. What would happen to Sammy if Mykel was announced with a gift? Could he take Sammy away from this horrible home? A long shot, yet a gift would allow escape from this dismal place and this dismal man. He thought of what was more likely to happen. No gift would come, and they would be stuck here. How much longer could Mykel share a house with Pop? Families were expected to stay together in Dimmitt. Take care of each other. But Pop seldom worked, and without their own efforts, they would starve. It would not be a promising life for either of them, and the thought of it brought nothing but despair. Mykel moved to dispel the cloud that hung over the moment.
"I saw Lina Tibbins yesterday. She asked about you," Mykel said. "I think she has a crush."
"Naw, she don't." Sammy scratched his chin in a gesture of sudden discomfort. He often did that when he became nervous.
"I think she does. You sweet on her too, right?"
Sammy smiled but wouldn't look his brother in the eye.
"Thought so."
"I'm out," Sammy said, getting up and walking toward the cleaning table. By this time tomorrow, he'd likely have taken the coney hides to the tanner for a few iron pennies. Most of it would go to Pop, but he might keep some for himself.
"Don't miss tomorrow." Mykel's voice rose. "Lots of food there . . . and Lina!"
Sammy turned to flash a smile back at his brother and picked up his pace. After a moment, Mykel worked up the courage to go back inside. An inspection of the cooking pot revealed that nothing remained of the coney meat, but there were a few pieces of potato he would share with Sammy. He avoided any further conversation with Pop, who rested on his bed. Without a gift, Mykel wondered how he might find a way to support Nara and Sammy, far from here.
Then he daydreamed of magic and love and an escape from Dimmitt.
3
Confession
Nara ambled up the hill, one of the village dogs trotting alongside her with a stick in his mouth. She stopped to wrestle the stick away from the pup, then tossed it back down the path, happily waiting for her little friend to retrieve the toy and catch back up to her. As she approached the cottage, she saw Bylo standing on the porch.
"Bylo!" she yelled, then dismissed the pup and picked up her pace. "I'm so sorry, I've been gone all day."
"It's okay, little one. I figured you'd be out making a raft or climbing trees with Mykel.”
"Actually, we raced up the mountain. Took all morning!"
The look on Bylo’s face made it clear that her disheveled hair and dirt-covered legs were bearing witness to her claim.
"Weren't you supposed to help out at the church kitchen for tomorrow?"
"I did," she said.
"The ladies let you cook in that pristine little kitchen, looking like that?"
"Actually, they had me emptying trash, doing dishes, and setting up chairs for the reception afterward. Heidi Trinck and Fannie Taylor helped in the kitchen."
Whether community settings or school-related functions, Nara often got stuck with the grun
t work, but she didn't mind. She enjoyed the work, and it needed to be done.
"A shame," said Bylo. "You're the best young cook in the whole village. Your mashed potatoes are divine!"
She entered the front room of the cottage. "Are you out of ink again?"
"How did you guess?"
The cottage was mostly dark, lit by a single lantern. Still, the inkwell on his little writing desk was obviously empty. She turned to him, raising her eyebrows in disbelief, then reached for a new well from the cupboard. Bylo was a simpleton sometimes. It was amazing that a wise man, so educated and traveled, could be such a silly goose when it came to obvious things. She looked about, seeing an empty sink and no dishes on the counter.
"Did you eat?"
"Um, I think so," he said.
"Been working all day again, I see."
The papers on his desk were stacked high, multiple iterations of carefully inked runes on pages, evidence that he had been practicing for hours.
"Did you get the water rune to work?" she asked.
Bylo grunted as he headed to the kitchen to make dinner, a clear indicator that success had eluded him.
Nara grabbed the ink in her left hand, then dipped her right index finger into the well. Closing her eyes, she reached inward with her awareness, tapping the presence that she had felt for so long, that glowing energy inside her. She poured power into the liquid as if exhaling a long, slow breath.
It astonished her to think that nobody else felt their own energy like she did, tapping it to do wondrous things. The first few times she had imbued ink, she gave too much and exhausted herself. With practice, she learned that ink required very little energy to be useful for Bylo's work.
And such things he did with it! Rocks became heavy, and he could make paper fly around the room by itself, which fascinated her when she was younger as she chased it about. The fun always came with admonishments from Bylo to keep it secret. She never told.
In school, which was taught by Father Taylor at the church, she learned about the announcement ceremony they would be forced to participate in when they were older. How special children might be discovered in the ceremony and would do things or see things normal people could not. Such children would be heroes and bring great honor to their families, the village, the church, and to the Great Land. It sounded like such a good thing, and yet Bylo still wanted her to keep her talents hidden. He had never fully explained what he was afraid of.
More questions arose in her mind. Why did a gift manifest before her announcement ceremony? And why didn't her gift match the types Father Taylor mentioned? He spoke of some who could harvest power, filling cepps that other gifted folk would use. Some children displayed extreme strength or speed. Others could shoot fire out of their hands, but he made it clear only one gift was given to each. Two gifts were something only for legends. Yet Nara possessed even more.
She could imbue ink with energy, like a harvester, and had been doing this for several years to help with Bylo's work. But she didn't move energy from trees or plants into the ink; she just put her finger into it, so she wasn't a harvester, was she? Father Taylor never mentioned anything about ink.
When she was younger, she discovered animals could talk, and she learned to talk back to them. Oh, they didn't talk like people—not at all. It was more like they felt at you—all emotions, not really words. She knew when they were happy and when they were hurting, feeling the pain of their injuries as if it was her very own. Sometimes she could even feel the pain of people if they were close. And for as long as she could remember, she could see things, even when she closed her eyes—the energy people gave off, their spirit. Animals and plants glowed too, but not as much as people, and it bothered her that she was the only one who seemed to detect the auras.
The unanswered questions turned to concerns about what would happen at the announcement ceremony tomorrow. And about Bylo’s magic. They were both so different from the other residents in Dimmitt. Different because of the magic.
"Bylo?" she asked.
"Yes?" He was chopping raw carrots and potatoes for dinner.
“Your work with the runes. And imbued ink. Has anyone ever done that before?”
“I really don’t know.”
“How did you get the idea to, um, play with them?”
“Play?”
“Ok, research. Whatever. Where did you get the idea?”
“Well, when I was looking for you, more than thirteen years ago, I found myself posing as a scribe in Fairmont.” He continued to chop vegetables as he spoke. “I had occasion to sup with a harvester. As you have heard, Harvesters take the life force from living things and transfer it into receptacles, or cepps, for storage. That magic can then be used by gifted folks to power their talents. This harvester mentioned imbuing a very odd cepp recently, one fashioned of bone with a liquid inside that was made from berries.”
A carrot fell on the floor and Bylo stooped to reach it, cursing himself for his clumsiness. Nara smiled at the silly old man. What a delight he was.
Bylo rinsed the carrot in a bucket of water and continued, “It reminded me of inks I used in my illustration work at the monastery. Inks made of berries. I then wondered if ink could be imbued apart from a cepp. If so, would imbued ink used to scribe a rune then impart power to the object so marked? The prophetic power of the runes was significant, and I was curious.”
He brought Nara a bowl of vegetables, then moved back to the kitchen to chop some for his own dinner, continuing to speak as he did so. As usual, she was hungry and ate quickly to quell the pangs.
“I chose to conduct an experiment. I walked to a harvester's shop in Scrap Hollow, one of the less reputable areas of Fairmont, and paid to have a man imbue a small pot of ink made from boiled shee-berries. Late that night, inside the inn where I stayed, I etched a perfect earth rune onto a stone. I had gotten pretty good with the earth rune, having practiced so many times when copying the margins of scripture texts..”
Bylo carried his own bowl of dinner to the small table where Nara sat, then retrieved two small cups of water and sat next to her.
“I poured the imbued ink into the inscription. Then, very carefully, I picked up the stone. Or that's what I tried to do, but when I clasped my fingers around it, it fell immediately to the ground. It was so heavy! The rock's weight had been magnified ten times.”
“Wow,” Nara said, between bites. “That must have been exciting.”
“Both exciting and terrifying, actually. And it sent me to a renewed study of the one ancient manuscript I possessed.” He pointed to the old book on his writing desk. “Research had revealed the meanings of some runes, but my training in illustration had taught me how to beautify a manuscript, not perfectly replicate it. Because of this, the other monks and I had associated runes with decoration, not with meaning. Our creativity had stripped these designs of their power!”
“What else did you do with the runes?”
“Wow, you’re a curious one today. You’ve never asked me these questions before.”
Nara smiled shyly. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’m feeling a bit odd lately. Different, I suppose. And with tomorrow, I just want to know some things.”
“Ok, well. Here you go. I ‘played’ with the runes a bit.” He smiled as he used Nara’s term for his research. “In doing so, I learned that when a rune is painted on the top of the skin, it imparts a marginal effect but dissipates in minutes. Maybe living beings reject the magic quickly, or the ink finds no purchase on the top of skin and simply evaporates away. Helpful in healing, a rune of health would quickly stop bleeding and repair small wounds when placed near the injury but does little more than that. Tattoos are different. They last much longer. Hours, even. I tattooed myself a few days ago with a rune of strength.”
He lifted the leg of his pants to show her a fresh tattoo on his thigh.
“Bylo, what if it hurt you? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Heh. Yeah, I worried about that, too. I considered tha
t the magic might disfigure me, breaking bone or tearing flesh, but nothing happened, the skin bleeding from the needle as with any tattoo. Moments later, however, I felt a vigor in my body I hadn't felt since my youth. I cut a wagonload of wood with my axe in only an hour! But it faded in half a day.”
“Tattoos, huh? No wonder you practice those designs whenever you can. I wonder what else you’ll be able to do.”
“So do I. Maybe I can find a way to bring food to Dimmitt. Without gifted, there is a bleak future for this little place.”
“But tomorrow is my announcement. I will be able to help, won’t I?”
Bylo said nothing and Nara’s curiosity flared. The village could finally learn how different she was, and if so, why wasn't Bylo concerned about her participation? He had always coached her to hide her talents from the villagers and she had complied, becoming quite adept at the secrecy. Even Mykel didn't know. But tomorrow the unveiling would occur, and Bylo hadn’t mentioned it at all.
"What will happen tomorrow at the announcement?"
Silence filled the room for several moments as she started to fidget with her empty bowl.
"I don't know," he finally said.
"Everyone will find out, won't they?"
"I don't think so."
"Why not?"
Another silence. This time he didn't fill it with a response.
"Bylo?"
"Yes, Nara?"
"How am I different?"
Another silence. Having finished his dinner, Bylo stood and washed his hands in a basin of water.
"Bylo!" she insisted. "Tell me!"
He sighed, then came back to sit next to her at the table.
"I don't know, Nara."
Bylo knew everything. How did he not know this?
"What do you mean, you don't know?"
"I've never met anyone like you." He reached for her hand and held it gingerly in his. "In truth, I don't think anyone has."
Nara nodded slowly but pulled her hand away, looking into his old eyes and concentrating on his words. Important words.
"Some children, rarely, have two gifts," he continued.
"The blessed, yes. Father Taylor told us. Minister Vorick is blessed, right?"
The Godseeker Duet Page 2
